Floridians, Part 1: Nine Fools in a Van

The man sitting across from me on the shuttle was a radiologist; the rest were nurses. Six of them in all, not including the driver, who was busy chatting up the youngest of the bunch in the front seat. My right leg and arm were tangled up with the luggage, which I’d been asked to keep from tumbling. First stop, the Radisson Inn Lake Buena Vista (their pool has a slide).

I’d last been to Orlando in the winter of 1990 with a friend from high school (we were sophomores in college at the time). We jumped into his Acura with a girl he hardly knew (and I didn’t know at all) and ran headlong into a blizzard outside Washington. I knew that first night that I was apt to throttle her if she stuck around for the long haul, but we were able to ditch her in Orlando. We hit The Magic Kingdom, Epcot, Universal Studios, and Pleasure Island (though we couldn’t enjoy any of the bars because my friend had no fake ID—it's hard to believe there was once a time when fake IDs were the center of my universe). That was an emotional trip for me, a journey into the past to relive two family vacations in Florida. Fourteen years later and it’s a distant journey into the distant past, but it never fails to seem like yesterday.

I think I chose to spend some time in Florida for my two-week vacation this December because I needed to reconnect with those moments in a way; the breathtaking innocence of childhood and that first nostalgic look back in college. I’ve been blessed with more than my fair share of cesuras, so to speak, pauses in the chaos. In the Spring of 2002, I loitered in Paris for eight lovely, lonely days. The summer before that, I sold my car, flew to Las Vegas, and played Johnny Cash out West for six weeks in a tent and a rented car. A Toyota Camry, as it was, and so it would be again in Orlando, though this model of utility was silver, not white. But that’s later. Back to the shuttle and the radiologist and the nurses…

As it happens, I’m an aspiring radiologist. And as it so happens, I’m also living this year as a medical intern. My life is alternately in the hands of radiologists and nurses, nurses and radiologists. Ten minutes off the plane and I’m right back where I started. Within miles of my hotel, people from all over the country were gathering at one resort for a nursing conference and another for a radiology conference. I couldn’t help but laugh. And the nurses liked my joke about my being available.

I took a stroll that first night, across the street to the mall, which boasted a Hooters and a deserted little place called The Lower East Side ("Orlando’s finest Glatt kosher restaurant"). I savored the thick, warm air and the palm trees and the manicured gardens. I almost forgot my troubles. Almost was enough.

The next morning I was on another shuttle (Orlando is nothing if not the center of the shuttle universe), this one bound for The Magic Kingdom. I was giddy enough to briefly notice that I was the oldest “kid” on the bus, but the illusion faded when I realized I was older than many of the parents as well. I decided that it isn’t stupid to want to fill your life with as many trouble-free moments as you possibly can. And it’s hard to worry about the rent when you’re on Space Mountain.

And really that’s what I was there for, to ride Space Mountain. Disneyworld’s indoor roller coaster was the first I’d ever braved, back when the park (and I—Disneyworld and I were born the same year) was only a few years old. It had scared the breath out of me, and it was years before I developed a taste for thrill rides. I still remember my older brother’s face, straining and pleading as he dragged my reluctant father back for a second run. I envied him his courage. My dad, too.

Space Mountain was closed for renovations in 1990 (the nostalgic look back), and I remember feeling defeated all over again. This time, I made sure there were no “modernizations” scheduled. I planned to make a bee-line for SM the minute they opened the gates.
To get to The Magic Kingdom, you can choose to ride the ferry or the monorail. For me, the monorail is the ultimate symbol of Florida. When we were kids, my brothers and I would guess what color the stripe on the next train would be. They still smell like manure inside, but that didn’t even come close to ruining the moment for me. I was on the monorail to Disneyworld, for cryin’ out loud!

I arrived at 20 to nine, and the area just outside the gate was already filling up with kids so excited they were vibrating. Disney, of course, always puts on a good show, and by the time Mickey Mouse and Co. rode in on a real steam train, the kids were in a frenzy. A little girl sitting on her father’s shoulders caught my attention when, as Mickey led the countdown from ten, she marked each number by slapping on her father’s head just a shade too hard for his comfort. Her face was pure joy; his was twisted into a pained grimace. For some reason, it brought tears to my eyes. It seemed to symbolize so much.

They told us not to run, and I didn’t. I made it into one of the first cars anyway. I remembered only flashes from that first ride nearly 30 years ago, but once we were hurtled into the darkness, the old rush came back. Only this time it was exhilarating. Space Mountain is not a very scary roller coaster, but for me, it is as thrilling as a trip through time, if not to a better place, then certainly to a place with a much-needed measure of clarity.

I made all the rounds that day: Pirates of the Caribbean, Splash Mountain, The Indy 500 Speedway. It’s a Small World was closed for remodeling, and Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea are gone, but it hardly mattered. I was in Disneyworld, and I let my cares fade away.

I bought a Mickey Mouse shirt on the way out. Old school, of course.